


Reasoning

by Black_Crystal_Dragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, M/M, Multi, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2010-09-01
Packaged: 2019-04-23 20:30:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Crystal_Dragon/pseuds/Black_Crystal_Dragon
Summary: Five times Sherlock engaged in sexual activity because of a logical reason – and one time he couldn't find a reason, and didn't need one.Sherlock with various partners, ultimately culminating in Sherlock/John.





	Reasoning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=654399#t654399) at the [sherlockbbc_fic](https://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/) meme (. Thanks to [Ice_Elf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Elf/) for the beta.
> 
> Archived to AO3 16 April 2018.

**1) To ‘Fit In’**  
  
Sherlock was twenty years old before he lost his virginity.  
  
He had left it late by his generation’s standards, he knew that, but didn’t feel the need. He didn’t like physical contact at the best of times and everyone knew that invasions of his personal space were unwelcome. Besides, he didn’t feel the need to emotionally connect with anyone, male or female, let alone make that supposed connection deeper via physical intimacy.  
  
It didn’t become an issue until he reached university. The first two years were fine; he kept his fellow students ignorant of the fact through a careful mix of misdirection and silence when questioned. Then someone had suggested that he liked ‘outing’ everyone who had had sex the night before over breakfast because he had no sex life himself, and Sherlock had unwisely chosen to respond with silence.  
  
They had taken his silence as an embarrassed admission, which it wasn’t. He wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed. He didn’t particularly like the new brand of teasing, however, so he had decided to fix the problem.  
  
Sebastian was Sherlock’s best bet. He was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend, which meant that sometimes they had a civil conversation in which Sebastian didn’t call him a freak. More importantly, however, Sherlock _knew_ Sebastian.  
  
He knew what made Sebastian tick. He knew what Sebastian looked for in sexual partners; he knew that he preferred to be called ‘Seb’ because the nickname made him feel liked; he knew that the man loved being told how wonderful he was. It wasn’t exactly difficult. Sidle up to him in the bar; press against his side with just a little too much familiarity; pay him a few compliments, and five minutes later they were kissing.  
  
It was almost too easy. The rush Sherlock felt at being able to manipulate someone so effortlessly helped things along a little. Sherlock might not like Sebastian all that much, but the thought of his own brilliance always was a heady aphrodisiac.  
  
Sebastian was drunk and clumsy, as Sherlock had expected, but he did the job.  
  
More importantly, he told his friends, which was exactly what Sherlock had been hoping. Of course, Seb came out of his story looking like a martyr: the man who slept with Sherlock Holmes, because it was a shame and Sherlock was so desperate and pathetic and freakish that he felt sorry for him. Anybody else might have been laughed at, or at the very least had their tastes called into question, but Sebastian had ways of spinning any situation to his advantage. He was lost on the world of banking; he ought to have gone into Politics; he could have been Prime Minister.  
  
The incident turned Sebastian into a kind of hero for a few days, and the virgin jokes and the sex-related teasing stopped, so Sherlock didn’t feel bad for manipulating Seb. The whole thing worked out pretty well for both of them.  
  
  
  
**2) Curiosity**  
  
The first time Sally Donovan saw Sherlock Holmes, it was lust at first sight. She was still feeling the rush at being introduced as ‘Sergeant Donovan’, the title fresh on her shoulders, and he – well. He was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, equal parts arrogance and brilliance. It was his mind as much as his tall-dark-handsome good looks that had made her want him.  
  
He seemed to like the fact that she found him impressive. He smiled and called her ‘Sergeant’ with a little smile that she thought was flirtatious. She later realised that that was just another part of the charade, but at first she was taken in by it.  
  
Not that she was naïve. She had been hardened by the job. Policing was a man’s world, even in the twenty-first century, and she had to be both tougher and better than the men to compensate for her gender. Most men didn’t like that. Most men called her ‘prickly’ and kept their distance. Sherlock, though, said he liked it. He’d say anything to get his way. He had flattered her; it had been flattery enough just to be noticed by the man.  
  
It had taken him two cases (unconnected grisly murders), three visits to the morgue (both of them there on separate business), and one cup of coffee in the hospital café for him to talk her into bed. She hadn’t taken too much convincing. To her eternal shame.  
  
They went back to his apartment simply because it was closer. It was the middle of the afternoon and they never made it to the bedroom, which was daring for Sally, but the sex was unspectacular. Technically, Sherlock was brilliant. His knowledge of anatomy and his dedication to the task at hand made him good, but it was memorable only because it was Sherlock Holmes. It certainly wasn’t the best time Sergeant Sally Donovan had ever been shown. She remembered thinking as she lay spread-eagled and naked on the sofa that there was always next time, which was stupid in retrospect.  
  
He let her have a full two minutes of afterglow before he actually asked her to leave. He even looked a little irritated that she hadn’t taken the initiative and crept out while he was dressing. Looking back, she wasn’t surprised, not in the slightest, but at the time it had made her heart twist in her chest.  
  
“Never been with a woman before,” he said bluntly when she asked why he was kicking her out. “Now I have. Thank you for your time, Sergeant Donovan.”  
  
And her face burned. She knew he noticed; he noticed everything, did Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t mention it, though. He didn’t even look at her again, not even when she asked – half-joking, half-desperate, wholly ashamed – “Will you call?”  
  
He laughed. And, God help her, she still fancied him even after that.  
  
  
  
**3) To Relieve Tension**  
  
Most of the time, Sherlock could deal with his body’s carnal urges. He could either control them, which he honestly preferred because it involved less mess and was less strenuous for his body, or he could release the built up tension alone. Most of the time. Occasionally, he had to resort to outside help.  
  
He had no interest in maintaining a relationship for the sole purpose of fulfilling his occasional sexual needs. Even he could see that it would be cruel to do so. Since he cultivated a deep and abiding hatred for the clubs, bars and pubs used by the single masses as hunting-grounds, finding a willing partner meant acquiring a prostitute. It was sometimes a lengthy process. Sherlock liked to be sure that he wasn’t going to catch anything infectious, and that meant checking for signs of disease as well as using a condom.  
  
He never asked for names; he could see everything he needed to know in the stance, the clothes, the expression, the amount of money he was asked for. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, either. The men – and they were exclusively men – were providing him with a service in exchange for his money. Just because it involved sex didn’t mean he had to treat them any better (or worse) than he would a waiter or a shop assistant or a taxi driver.  
  
Tonight’s rent boy was younger than Sherlock and more than happy to get down on his knees in the damp alley he had been found in. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried not to think. An impossible task, but he liked to attempt the impossible occasionally. Failing kept him humble. _Ha!_  
  
The slide of the young man’s mouth was more sensation than his body was used to, cocooned in gloves and three layers of long sleeves around most people. His hips twitched, involuntary. He was disgusted with himself. He should be above such bodily desires. His mind was a finely tuned instrument, and with it he ought to be able to banish physical desire as easily as one would cast off a hat.  
  
He couldn’t, though, and it _bothered_ him – even when he was with someone, it bothered him. Especially, in fact, when he could feel his orgasm building in the base of his spine and the tips of his toes. It was obscene, that a mind like his could be brought to its knees by the ever-insistent needs of the flesh.  
  
When it was over, he paid the man for services rendered and walked out of the alley without a word and without looking back. Why should he? He didn’t look back over his shoulder at till operators or bank tellers. It was just another service. There was no emotion in it.  
  
  
  
**4) Educational Purposes**  
  
Professional boytoys were not in any way Sherlock’s thing, but occasionally, for the sake of a case, he was forced to do things he wouldn’t normally for the sake of collecting more data. The police were almost comically obtuse in investigating the death of Ms. Chadwick (forty-eight, divorcee, PA, looking for ‘a giggle’ with ‘new friends’ according to her match.com profile). She had been found face-down on her bed with blood from her neck staining the sheets.  
  
It wasn’t a suicide, that much was obvious even to Anderson. The woman Ms. Chadwick paid to come and clean three times a week was clear; she was genuinely hysterical following her discovery of her dead employer, and couldn’t tell them much more than the obvious. However, the police were completely taken in by the ex-husband’s horrified shaking and wittering, his tears and his frankly pathetic lie that Ms. Chadwick had been the one to leave him.  
  
Admittedly, the divorce papers had been sent from her to him, but that meant little. The clothing of a woman twenty years her junior, the dyed hair and the excessive and garish use of make-up told Sherlock that Ms. Chadwick had low self-esteem. That, plus the fact that there were no signs that a man had ever lived in her house, indicated to him that the picture painted by her ex-husband of a cruel serial adulterer was false. He had no proof to the contrary, however, so he was forced to go off and find some. Lestrade could be tiresomely procedural when he had a mind to be.  
  
Shoved into the phone book in Ms. Chadwick’s living room was a card for the Marquis de Sade Agency, which advertised itself euphemistically as ‘company for older ladies and gentlemen’. On the back of the card was a name, Pierre. The police had dismissed it with barely a glance.  
  
“It it’s still on a card, it’s probably just a memento,” Lestrade told him. “If she was a regular, why not put it in the book?”  
  
Sherlock could think of quite a lot of reasons, including Ms. Chadwick’s – embarrassment that she had to turn to paying for ‘company’, fear that she and her phonebook would be judged if an agency like the Marquis de Sade was found in it – but he didn’t say anything. It was irrelevant. Whatever her reasons for keeping the phone number on the card instead of in the book, he could see that the card itself was not new. There were grimy fingerprints around the edges, the corners had been knocked and he ink was slightly faded: all hallmarks of frequent touching. He had copied the number into his phone for later reference.  
  
After they left the ex-husband, Mr Parsons, Lestrade gave Sherlock strict orders to leave the man alone for the time being, whatever his suspicions might be. With an indifferent shrug – he already had everything he needed from the man – Sherlock hailed a cab. On the way back to his flat, Sherlock made the call to the Marquis de Sade Agency.  
  
It wasn’t difficult to pretend to be a lonely and pathetic forty-something, and easy to pitch his voice high enough to pass as a woman over the phone. He pretended that he was calling on the recommendation of his good friend Mary Chadwick – and could they send Pierre, since she had been so complimentary towards him? The woman on the other end of the phone asked for his name and address, which he gave with a minimum of lies, and was told that Pierre wasn’t visiting anyone at the moment and would be there within the hour. With a smile, Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket and told the cabbie to put his foot down.  
  
Almost exactly an hour later, there was a knock at Sherlock’s door. He opened it to reveal a fresh-faced young man with short, dark hair. He was tall, though not as tall as Sherlock, and well-muscled; his tight black t-shirt allowed him to show off his biceps and, through the material, the muscles of his chest. In his hand, he held a single red rose to which was tied a card similar to the one Sherlock had seen in Ms. Chadwick’s phonebook. He could see that ‘Pierre’ was scribbled onto this card, too, in the same handwriting, proving Sherlock’s theory that the woman had not written it herself. He smiled as ‘Pierre’s’ friendly expression faltered.  
  
“I’m looking for a Ms. Jones?” he said, peering past Sherlock in confusion. “They said she lived at this address …”  
  
“Oh, you’re in the right place, ‘Pierre’,” Sherlock told him as he stepped back to let the young man into his flat. Inside, it was a mess of paperwork and boxes, but he had cleared the sofa. ‘Pierre’ allowed himself to be guided over to it and sat down when Sherlock gestured towards the seat. Sherlock plucked the rose from his fingers. “Is this for me? Oh, you shouldn’t have.”  
  
“Er,” ‘Pierre’ said. “You’re ‘Ms Jones’?”  
  
“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock replied as he placed the rose beside the kitchen sink.  
  
“You’re not really the sort of person who normally calls the Marquis,” the young man continued. Sherlock walked back over to the sofa and sat down beside him.  
  
“I’m sure. But then, I don’t really want the sort of thing that they want.”  
  
“Oh,” said ‘Pierre’, looking surprisingly disappointed. He leaned back and gave Sherlock a playfully seductive look, one probably practiced on older ladies (and gentlemen) across the city. “Shame, I was looking forward to the change.”  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Interesting. Well, it always paid to keep his options open. “Perhaps when we’ve had a little chat.”  
  
“I’ll hold you to that,” the young man replied with a grin. “And I thought you wanted something different to the usual clientele. Most of my ladies just want to talk – they don’t have anyone else, really.”  
  
“I was hoping you would say that,” Sherlock said with a smile.  
  
It took him twenty minutes to explain what had happened to Ms. Chadwick and get all of the information he wanted from ‘Pierre’ – whose real name was Johnny Banks, but ‘Pierre’ was much more in keeping with the agency’s image, apparently. As Sherlock had suspected, the ex-husband was lying through his teeth about the reasons for the divorce. Ms. Chadwick had been traded in for a younger, thinner (and apparently sluttier) model. The affair that had caused the divorce lasted for a couple of years, but recently it had fallen apart. The last time Johnny had seen Ms. Chadwick, she had told him that her ex-husband had come crawling back to her, begging for her to take him back, but she had refused.  
  
Sherlock smiled; it was almost certainly because of this that she had been murdered. All Johnny had to do was tell the police. He told him so.  
  
“Mary was a lovely woman,” he said quietly with a small shake of his head. “I wouldn’t put it past that ex of hers to do her in, if she didn’t give him his way. She only got a divorce because he bullied her into it. If what I know could put him away, I’ll tell the police, yeah.”  
  
“Don’t mention me,” Sherlock ordered firmly. “Her name will be in the papers, tell them you saw the story and had to come forward with what you know about the husband. Tell them you don’t believe that he could be that upset, after everything she told you.”  
  
Johnny nodded, then reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock’s forearm. “I don’t have to give them a ring right now, though, do I?”  
  
Sherlock looked Johnny up and down again. With his cheeky smile and the twinkle in his eyes, plus his kindness and willingness to simply listen, it was no surprise that the lonely middle-aged masses were willing to pay for his company. He glanced at the clock: lunch time. Lestrade would be out of the office for almost an hour.  
  
“I think we have a little time,” he said. Johnny wasn’t looking for anything more than no-strings-attached sex with someone under the age of forty, which was good for Sherlock. He worked for an actual registered agency, which had good reviews online and guaranteed that their employees were free from STIs. Also, he had been with multiple partners, meaning that he was experienced, and Sherlock would never pass up an opportunity to improve a skill. “Unless you have a more pressing engagement, Mr Banks …”  
  
“Good,” Johnny said, leaning towards Sherlock and placing a hand on the back of his neck. “And just so you know – this is free of charge.”  
  
Smiling, Sherlock let himself be pulled into a deep kiss and surrendered to the thrill of the moment.  
  
  
  
**5) For Information**  
  
Jeremy and Eric Salway-Lloyd lived quite happily in 223b Baker Street. There were occasionally some very odd noises from next door, ever since Mrs Hudson’s upstairs flat had been taken by an obviously-still-in-the-closet couple, but the shorter of the two was always friendly. They rarely saw the other one, except when he was dashing to and from a cab.  
  
Until he came and knocked on their door, out of the blue. It was Jeremy who answered the door. He gave the tall, lanky and undeniably handsome man on the doorstep a visual once-over, recognising the coat and the dark, curly hair after a moment of confusion. He smiled at their neighbour. “Hello. Can I help you?”  
  
“I’m Sherlock, I live next door,” he said. His voice was deliciously deep and sensuous. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremy saw Eric poke his head around the door that led into the kitchen and raise his eyebrows. Sherlock-from-next-door continued, “Mrs Hudson said that you and your partner are married?”  
  
“That’s right,” Jeremy said. Eric came to join him in the doorway, sliding a protective arm around his waist.  
  
“Why do you ask?” Eric asked, typically suspicious. Eric always worried when their marriage came up, just in case they were going to get stick. Jeremy couldn’t really blame him, after the fiasco that had been coming out to his parents, but Sherlock looked curious rather than angry or concerned for their immortal souls, and also he was hot, so Jeremy was personally willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.  
  
“How married?” Sherlock-from-next-door asked, eyeing them inquisitively. That raised Jeremy’s eyebrows. Sherlock-from-next-door sighed irritably and continued, “What I mean is, how open is your relationship?”  
  
“Are you actually trying to proposition one of us?” Eric asked, deeply incredulous. His arm tightened around Jeremy’s waist.  
  
“Both of you, actually,” Sherlock-from-next-door replied. He didn’t seem remotely embarrassed either by what he was saying or by the taboo nature of what they were now discussing. Jeremy felt his stomach flip over at the words, though. He was very attractive, after all, and Jeremy might be married but he was only human.  
  
He became aware that Eric was looking at him. He looked back and tilted his head on one side: _Well?_  
  
Eric pulled an incredulous expression: _C’mon …_  
  
Jeremy raised an eyebrow: _What harm can it do?_  
  
Eric took his arm from around Jeremy’s waist and grabbed the edge of the door. “We need to talk about this,” he said, and closed the door in Sherlock-from-next-door’s face. Then he turned to face Jeremy. “A threesome? With Mr Enigmatic Loner out there? Seriously?”  
  
“Well, we did say we might try it one day,” Jeremy pointed out with a shrug. “And he’s almost as good looking as you …”  
  
“You think? I think he’s scary.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe a bit, but he’s hot,” Jeremy said with a smirk. “Not to mention that voice …”  
  
“You’re a manwhore,” Eric told him as Jeremy draped himself around his neck. He kissed Eric’s neck.  
  
“Yeah, but I’m _your_ manwhore,” Jeremy reminded him gently, biting at his earlobe. “And I still will be afterwards. I don’t think he actually wants a lasting relationship with us.”  
  
“Well, no,” Eric said, glancing at the door. After a short pause, he asked, “Isn’t he with John, though?”  
  
“Maybe they had a falling out or broke up or something. His loss. Come on, Eric, don’t pretend you’ve not thought about this. You’ve been checking out his arse every time you catch him leaving 221.”  
  
“Fine. But I get to ask him a question first.”  
  
“Whatever,” Jeremy said, grabbing the door handle, pulling it open and grinning at Sherlock-from-next-door. “Why don’t you come in, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock-from-next-door stepped in, but was almost immediately blocked by Eric. “Why do you want to have a threesome with us?”  
  
Sherlock-from-next-door gave him a long stare, as if weighing him up, then calmly said, “I’m working on a murder case with Scotland Yard. I have reason to believe that the dynamics of a threesome could be important to the case, but I have no experience. The two of you are reasonably attractive, and you appear to have approximately the same relationship as the married couple involved in the threesome.”  
  
“You’re telling me we’re an experiment?” Eric bristled. Jeremy laid a calming hand on his shoulder.  
  
“I believe that this is equally an experiment for the two of you,” Sherlock-from-next-door replied reasonably with a tilt of his head. Eric looked at Jeremy; Jeremy looked at Eric. After a few seconds, Eric caved and let out a deep sigh.  
  
“OK, fine. But I’m going to need a drink,” he said, walking towards the kitchen. “Anyone else?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock replied as he took off his coat and scarf. He then turned to Jeremy and asked, “Bedroom?”  
  
“I’ll show you,” Jeremy said with a smile. Eric might still be a little snippy about the whole affair, but he had agreed to it, and Jeremy was actually looking forward to seeing what Sherlock-from-next-door looked like naked.  
  
Sherlock-from-next-door paused in the bedroom doorway and said, loudly enough for Eric to hear, “I trust neither of you will tell John about this?”  
  
Eric came out of the kitchen with a bottle of Scotch and a glass in his hands and shared a Look with Jeremy. So, this was hush-hush was it? The two of them looked at Sherlock-from-next-door, then back at one another. Eric drank the contents of his glass and shrugged.  
  
“We won’t tell John,” Jeremy said to Sherlock-from-next-door. He nodded and went into the bedroom.  
  
They never did find out if Sherlock-from-next-door solved the case or not, although when he arrived back at 221 the next evening – with John in tow – he had a spring in his step. They assumed that he had managed it. They also never told John what had happened.  
  
  
  
**& 1) Reasons Undisclosed**  
  
Sherlock put people he knew into categories: colleague; acquaintance; friend; enemy; nemesis. Lestrade was a man he worked with, who had the potential to be a good detective but lacked the imagination to make intuitive leaps such as those he himself was capable of. Donovan he called a friend to her face, ironically, but she was an enemy, albeit a feeble one. Mrs Hudson was an acquaintance, someone he had helped once and who owed him a favour. Mycroft was his nemesis, the title given more or less because he had had it for so long it seemed unfair to take it away. He didn’t have friends.  
  
Sherlock found it difficult to compartmentalise John Watson. At first, he had assumed that it would be easy; as a qualified doctor, he would be a good second pair of eyes at a murder scene, and as an ex-soldier desiring a little more action, he would make an excellent second pair of hands in a fight. He had wanted to insinuate his work into John Watson’s life, but after the good doctor moved in it turned out to be the other way around: little by little, John insinuated himself into Sherlock’s life.  
  
It started with him making Sherlock mugs of tea without being asked, and knowing just how heaped the two spoonfuls of sugar needed to be by reading his mood. He remembered to bring home packets of Rich Tea biscuits, which Sherlock liked to munch on occasionally, and always made sure he cooked for two so that Sherlock would be forced to either eat what was put in front of him or put up with John looking at him in a way that was wounded, disappointed and pissed off all at once. He remembered Sherlock’s favourites and made them on days when mental stimulation was thin on the ground, just to cheer him up. John made him watch films and sit-coms and various other travesties of television, and laughed when most of his deductions came to nothing because of dramatic convention and the fact that TV isn’t anything like real life.  
  
They worked together, too. Grisly murders; thefts and robberies; missing persons; John was grudgingly at his beck and call, unable to resist the potential for adventure, just as Sherlock had intended. Except, it was nothing whatever like he had intended. He didn’t expect the praise that John gave him when he made his deductions – praise that was never usually forthcoming, even from Lestrade, who was the closest Sherlock had had to an advocate before. He didn’t expect for John to nudge him when he was too insensitive, needle at him to be better and cleverer. He didn’t expect to want to impress the man.  
  
He tried to fit John into the mental drawer labelled ‘friend’, but he wouldn’t fit. A man willing to kill for him was a friend, and a good one, but a man willing to die for him? ‘Friend’ was not a strong enough word. Sherlock thought perhaps ‘brother’ might be more appropriate, had not Mycroft ruined the term by being generally insufferable.  
  
Seeing John with a bomb strapped to his chest had almost stopped Sherlock’s heart. He glanced over at John, who was sitting on the couch with his feet up, reading a newspaper. Physically, he was fine but for a few cuts and scrapes. Mentally, he was picking himself up and dusting himself off. Sherlock felt like he was still lying flat on his back, mentally speaking, unable to even sit up, let alone climb onto his feet.  
  
John looked up and caught him staring. “Sherlock?”  
  
There was no compartment in Sherlock’s head that John could fit into. He didn’t have the right term to encompass everything that John had come to mean to him. Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to the cut on John’s forehead, held closed by a neat row of stitches: the only visible evidence of the aftermath of the bomb detonation. Seeing it, Sherlock wanted to go over and touch John to remind himself that he was alive.  
  
“Sherlock?” John repeated, more concerned this time. “You all right?”  
  
He nodded; he couldn’t think of anything to say. John frowned at him and put down the newspaper, swinging his legs off the side of the couch and standing up. He walked over and bent to look into Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
“Please tell me you don’t have some kind of head trauma from the pool that you didn’t tell the hospital about,” he murmured half to himself as he peered into Sherlock’s face. “The last thing I need is for you to have an undiagnosed brain injury …”  
  
“As a doctor, you should know that’s extremely unlikely at this stage,” Sherlock told him. He knew enough about medicine to discuss this; he was in possession of the nice, safe facts. John was still looking at him suspiciously so he added, “The hospital ran every conceivable test and sent me home.”  
  
“They did the same for me, you know,” John commented, crouching down in front of Sherlock with a wince at his twisted knee. “I’ve seen you watching me hobble about the place. I’m OK, Sherlock. By some miracle, we both are.”  
  
He reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s knee, offering him a smile. Instinctively, Sherlock dropped his hand on top of John’s and immediately felt better. John’s skin was warm and at this distance he could see his pulse fluttering in his throat: he was alive. He was safe. He slid his hand down the length of John’s arm to his shoulder, bending so that he could reach the other man’s neck.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said softly, curiously, as he looked up at him. Sherlock could read most people, including John most of the time, but suddenly he felt as if all his deductive powers had abandoned him. He couldn’t tell what John was thinking. He barely knew what he was thinking.  
  
“John,” he breathed, freezing when he realised how close he was to the other man’s face. He suddenly had no idea how to proceed. This was completely unfamiliar territory.  
  
Understanding seemed to dawn in John’s face and Sherlock’s heart did something strange and new inside his chest when he shifted forward onto his knees and pushed up, leaned in. Sherlock resisted the urge to sit up a little. “Bear in mind,” John murmured, meeting Sherlock’s eyes as his other hand brushed against his arm, “I’ve not actually done this with another man before …”  
  
John’s fingers caught at his shoulder and pulled him down an inch or so until their lips brushed. The first contact was brief and tentative, somehow unexpected to Sherlock despite the build up to it. His eyes widened and John pulled back to chuckle, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in amusement. Sherlock licked his lips and stroked his thumb across the thick vein in John’s neck, feeling for the beat of his pulse, then leaned in again just to shut him up.  
  
John tugged at his shoulder and he carefully slid out of his chair to join the other man on the floor. John shuffled forwards and settled between Sherlock’s spread knees, sighing as Sherlock deepened the kiss. His mouth was hot and tasted sharply of the tea he had been drinking.  
  
Sherlock could feel the heady rush of arousal tingling down his spine and wondered if he ought to pull back and take things a little slower. He tried it, only to have John’s fingers fist in his curls to drag him in again. Their mouths crashed together and John’s teeth scraped over his bottom lip, dragging a moan from his throat. John swallowed the sound and tugged on his hair to tilt his head into a better position. Sherlock shuddered, his traitorous body giving in to John’s hands and lips and tongue. Suddenly, John pulled back with a hiss.  
  
“Wait, I can’t – my knee. We need to move.” He gingerly crawled back a little way and carefully got to his feet. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t the only one affected by the kissing. John cleared his throat and when Sherlock looked up he saw that the other man looked embarrassed.  
  
Sherlock stood and took a step closer, bending to press their mouths together. John’s fingers fought his jacket and shoved it off his shoulders and down his arms, then went to work on his shirt buttons. In retaliation, Sherlock grabbed the hem of his jumper and yanked it up, breaking the kiss to pull it and his t-shirt together over John’s head and then throwing it aside. For a moment, they stared at one another – John topless, Sherlock’s shirt hanging off his shoulders – before they came together again.  
  
John manoeuvred them around and backed Sherlock up until he was pressed against the wall between the front door and the arch into the kitchen, tugging on Sherlock’s hair to get his head down to the right height. Sherlock let his hands wander across John’s back and then dipped them lower, pushing his fingertips down the back of his jeans. John’s hips jerked forwards and he pulled out of the kiss with a gasp.  
  
“Fuck,” he spat.  
  
Sherlock could feel John’s arousal through the layers of cloth between them and knew that his own had to be equally transparent. He let his fingers push lower and drew John closer to him, encouraging him to roll his hips. John did so and Sherlock tipped his head back against the wall, exposing his neck to John’s teeth and tongue while he moaned.  
  
“Bed,” John growled against his collarbone. “Bed, now.”  
  
The words were a command, and not one Sherlock intended to disobey. John yanked him away from the wall and shoved him into the kitchen, pushing at him until they reached his bedroom. There he spun Sherlock around and ripped off the shirt, then backed him into the bed and shoved him down onto it.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, marvelling at how rough his own voice sounded. He reached for the other man, drew him down on top of him. “John.”  
  
Muffled up in jumpers and jackets, John looked harmless enough but beneath them he had the body of a soldier, hardened by training and combat. Although his months of recovery had lost him some definition, Sherlock could still feel the shift of strong muscles across his back. He dug his fingers into John’s deltoids to make him hiss, careful to avoid the scar his Afghanistan injury had left, while his blood sang with the mantra _you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive._  
  
Afterwards, they lay side by side on the bed, sharing the only pillow left on the bed. One corner of the duvet was bravely hanging on to the edge of the bed; the rest, along with the other three pillows and the two men’s remaining clothes, lay rumpled on the floor around the bed, tossed aside in the heat of the moment. Sherlock slid his hand across the white sheet until his knuckles bumped John’s, and carefully twined their fingers together. John turned his head and squirmed until his nose was pressed against Sherlock’s scalp, his face buried in his dark curls.  
  
“Sorry if that was a bit rubbish,” he murmured, his lips brushing the edge of Sherlock’s ear. It was an usually self-depreciating statement for John, but there was an edge of humour to his words. “Like I said, never done that before.”  
  
Sherlock smiled and turned his head, pressing his mouth briefly to John’s just because it was suddenly allowed. He still wasn’t any closer to compartmentalising John Watson, but he was starting to suspect that that was part of the attraction. For the first time in his life his mind had not rebelled at the loss of control that sex brought with it. He felt sticky and messy; there was sweat sticking his hair to his neck; and he found that, gloriously, he didn’t care.  
  
“Not at all,” he said softly, giving John’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I have no complaints. Although I do have a request.”  
  
“Go on,” John said with a happy sigh, sliding his arm under the pillow to prop himself up a little higher.  
  
“Don’t put this on your blog.”  
  
“As if,” John chuckled sleepily. He nuzzled into another kiss, sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth. Sherlock hummed approvingly, but too soon John pulled back. “People already thing I’m crazy for _living_ with you. If I tell them I’m sleeping with you too, I think Harry’ll have me committed.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled, rolling onto his side and reaching across and drawing his fingertips up from John’s bellybutton to his collarbone. “I’m sure Mycroft would get you out if you asked him.”  
  
“I don’t know, he might back Harry up,” John said with a laugh, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers before he sat up and stretched his back. He twisted around to look down at Sherlock. “Did you really think I’d post about my sex life on the internet?”  
  
“Why not? You write about practically everything else, I would’ve thought your sudden foray into a new sexuality would be fair game,” Sherlock teased, and got a playful kick in the shins for his trouble. He stared contentedly at the ceiling; if John could take a joke like that without a massive protest, it almost certainly meant that he wasn’t going to freak out at a later stage.  
  
John stood got up and grabbed his boxers from the floor then went in search of his jeans. He found them under the duvet and pulled them on, fastening them quickly. He turned and looked down at Sherlock, who lounged comfortably on the bed, watching him. John’s eyes were soft and warm; the way he looked at Sherlock unfurled a whorl of heat in Sherlock’s belly. “Right,” he said. “Shower and then tea, I think.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and John turned to grab the rest of his clothes from the floor. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled to himself, raising his fingers to the developing bruise on the junction of neck and shoulder, pressing hard enough to hurt to remind him of the bite that had put it there.  
  
“Get dressed,” John said over his shoulder as he opened the bedroom door. “I don’t want you wandering around the flat naked, scaring Mrs Hudson.”  
  
Sherlock laughed but didn’t bother getting up to put on clothes when John was out of the room. Considering what he had planned for when he heard John get in the shower, there wouldn’t be much point. They would only get wet.


End file.
